yabs

(the curse of the names with the “ee”/”y” sound)

Ever since you broke me, there has been this giant weight on my shoulders that I can’t remove. In the plethora of pseudo-relationships I have tried to establish throughout the years after our cyclone of ups and downs, our tango of sin and forgiveness, I have been cursed with fear. Starting off with good intentions and wholehearted understanding; coupled with this strong somewhat overpowering malediction; spewing forth from my lips despite my restraint.

I am a good person – that I am sure of. I have been hurt, I have forgiven, I have endured as much as I can and have suffered in each retreat. I know how to love with a kindness that brings me to tears and with an intimacy that dares to be bluntly honest. Yet I fail… In my attempts to recover from you, I had to sacrifice my beliefs, suppress my true romantic nature and wallow in the sewage of alcohol, the temporary embrace of women whom I know I cannot love and the shell of chauvinistic negativity I protect myself with.

Of the embarrassingly staggering number of amorous (but temporary) interactions I have found myself in, I have met only FOUR of which I considered loving. Of whom I would have given my all – all my tears, all my smiles and all of who I am. I entered and I stumbled. Falling hard and showing unimaginable effort that I quickly and hesitantly take back out of fear. And then I feel that accursed weight bearing down on me. Planting my feet deeper into the borders of hell, losing what love and hope I thought was within my grasp.

I’ve tried to live alone, to not need anyone, to treat everything lightly and with a joke in every thought. Pretending to be happy and convincing myself that this smile is not make-believe, though I know that it is. I am desperate. Desperate to find love… not for completion, not for joy, not even for the sake of settling down; but rather for an affirmation that I am worth loving… that love does indeed exist in the way I remember it as a hopeful child. On top of the pedestal I once placed it on. Away from the treachery of significant others, from the lies of former friends, from the broken promises of family or from sleepless nights of whence I can’t bear living with the person I have become.

Every shot at love has always been a repetition of you and I, in some form or another. I am tired. I don’t want to fear women (in this way) any longer. This weight I bear has not made me stronger. It has only taught me the way of avoidance and evasion. Just to spare my heart and mind the unspeakable agony I will never get used to. When did love become this filthy? When did it grow all these thorns? Where is the sanctity that I once believed in so much that I would lay my life for it?